by Andrew Grant
20
I woke up lying across the table surrounded by pages of newspapers and the debris of my meal. I felt like gritty shit. I glanced at my watch. It was almost 16:00. I’d been out of it for most of the day. I used the toilet and caught sight of myself in the mirror as I washed up. The make-up Mary and her friend had applied at Sami’s was streaked; I looked like a pantomime disaster, a sort of brown and white minstrel. A shower would have to wait. Instead I made do with scrubbing all my visible bits in the washbasin. At least there was plenty of hot water. I was now seriously hungry. I drank one of my remaining beers. It was warm but it was wet.
I did some housekeeping, tossing the rubbish and tidying the newspaper. I hadn’t read a lot of it, so I cracked open the last beer and started a serious read. The sort of read only seriously bored people can do. There was a smallish piece on page four about suspected pirate activity off the coast beyond Ranong. Local fishermen had recovered several bodies and body parts from the sea. One particularly grisly find had been made when a large Tiger shark caught in a net was opened up. Inside had been a partially digested human head. ‘Nice!’ I muttered.
About then I hoped Don Don would come bouncing in the door with more beer, more food and the expert crew who were coming to take charge of my lead casket. Then I heard the door open and a voice beyond it. That was when I knew that no matter what good deeds I had performed over the last few days, my karma was going to be all bad.
‘Is that the international man of mystery?’
What the hell was she doing here? Somehow my heart had made it into the back of my throat, jamming my voice box so I couldn’t scream. ‘Fuck,’ I thought. Dracula had arrived in the crypt. I averted my eyes so I wouldn’t go blind and fumbled to make the sign of the cross. It was a childish thing on my part. Sort of self-defence for idiots or something. ‘Bugger off, Sylvia!’ I finally managed to croak out.
‘Oh, poor little Danny boy. Haven’t you got anyone to play with, all alone in this big cold box?’ That was the thing about ex-wives: they could get under your skin without even trying. It was second nature to them. Sylvia Swann, née Dixon, had been my only attempt at matrimonial bliss. Sylvia was a scientist employed by the Ministry of Defence. She was a specialist in things bacterial and chemical which was why, right at that moment, I was extremely grateful that I hadn’t succumbed to my childish impulses and opened that damned box. I was also glad that it would shortly be gone from my life, just like Sylvia. She’d entered my life like a thunderbolt and vanished in a tempest.
Sylvia and I met at a mutual friend’s wedding and discovered we basically shared the same employer. We dated, and in an indecently short time, discovered we made spectacular sex. We married, had more spectacular sex and then the wheels fell off. It had been an incredibly short-lived attempt at creating eternal wedded bliss for a couple of reasons. Part of the problem was Sylvia’s inability to understand the nature of what I did, because she didn’t bloody well know and I couldn’t tell her. All she knew was that I, like her, ‘worked for the Government’ and I seemed to be always away doing ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ was. We probably could have survived that, but the other major factor was my inability to keep my hands and other body parts off other women. Result: a series of dirty big fights followed by a quick dirty little divorce.
‘Hello, darling former wife,’ I said finally. I looked up just as Sylvia’s lips brushed my cheek.
‘And you, sweetie,’ she replied. ‘Nice décor,’ she added, wrinkling her nose as she looked around the room. ‘Early trash with just a hint of imperial Victoriana, wouldn’t you say?’
‘You’re the fucking expert,’ I said and immediately regretted the opening I’d just delivered to her the moment it left my lips. She pounced like a damned mongoose going for a cobra.
‘No, dearly departed, you’re the fucking expert if you remember rightly,’ she said almost sweetly. ‘Anyway, enough of the foreplay. I’m here to examine that little black box you’re guarding.’ Sylvia turned away, eyes seeking out the object of her interest. As she moved her long, silver–blonde locks shimmered in the fluorescent light. Tall, almost five feet eleven, slim as a fashion model and with a face that could melt a thousand hearts when she so chose, my dear ex was stunning. Fresh from God knows how many hours in a presumably military aircraft, she looked as if she had stepped out of a beauty parlour. She turned and waved two people into the room. I could see a bunch more hovering in the office behind them.
Garston Headley was first into the secure room. Garston always looked like a rumpled garden gnome. He was basically a cross between Bill Oddie and Worzel Gummidge in both the looks and grooming stakes. Garston had been born that way. I remembered at our wedding that he, as a close friend of Sylvia’s, had been an usher in the chapel. Even when issued with a cleaned and pressed tux straight from the hire shop, he had managed to reduce it to a rumpled, crumpled and stained mess in five minutes flat. With wild hair, a beard that could—and probably did—hide a battalion of paras, and his silly little John Lennon glasses, he looked like the proverbial mad scientist he in fact was.
‘Good afternoon, Daniel,’ Garston said formally as he advanced. He put down the large, white hard-shelled box he was carrying with a bright orange biohazard symbol on it and gave me his usual dead-fish handshake. We shook as Sylvia ushered the second figure in my direction.
‘Helen, this is Daniel Swann. Never be alone with him if you value your virginity, or what’s left of it.’ Helen was a blusher and on her, a blush looked good, very good. She was petite, with big dark eyes and dark brown hair cut in a cute pageboy style. Apart from her glowing cheeks, the rest of her complexion was pure cream. I would have said Welsh without hearing her speak.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said in a voice that echoed the sounds of the vales. Her hand was cool and smooth but it twitched in mine like a small, frightened rodent. I released it after an indecently long time and watched it flee back to its owner’s side.
‘And you,’ I replied, trying not to let Sylvia’s smirk get to me.
‘I presume what we are seeking is in that cute little handbag of yours?’ Sylvia pointed to the holdall her X-ray vision had located on the floor by the desk. ‘Right as always,’ I replied with absolutely no inflection in my voice. Sylvia flashed me a glance to see if I was winding her up. Satisfied I wasn’t, she gave the order for her people to mask and glove up. They were as slick as surgeons at that. The masks weren’t standard surgical ones but rather industrial-strength masks with filters fitted. When they were done, Sylvia nodded to Garston and The Gnome went to do her bidding. He picked up the bag and carefully placed it on the table.
‘You?’ Sylvia queried, tapping the front page of the newspaper she had gathered off the table. There was the photo of the Ruby Buddha and the headline MYSTERY MAN RETURNS RUBY BUDDHA TO PHA TO.
‘I confess,’ I replied almost smugly.
‘How very noble of you, Dan,’ Sylvia purred through her mask. ‘Now go away and let us get down to work, darling ex.’ Garston had lifted the box from the pack and was carefully manoeuvring it onto the desk. The bright slash of fresh lead against the dull aged colour of the rest of the box caused him to pause. The Gnome looked up and beamed a silent question at me from behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
‘Spear head went in,’ I said. ‘When I removed it some damned stuff leaked out and I gashed my thumb.’
‘Shit!’ Sylvia snapped and Garston’s hands came off the box in double-quick time.
‘I resealed it with lead,’ I added as both scientists turned towards me.
‘What about the material that leaked out?’ Sylvia wanted to know.
‘We had a heavy sea running. Waves washed over it. Whatever it was it’s in the fucking Andaman,’ I replied.
‘Thank God,’ Sylvia muttered, a look of relief momentarily flashing across her eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by one of concern. ‘Did you get any of that stuff on you or in the cut?’
‘I don’t know
,’ I replied. Suddenly I was scared. The look in my former wife’s eyes was bad enough, but Garston’s was worse. He was close to panic. ‘What the fuck was it?’
‘Bad,’ Sylvia said.
‘What fucking bad?’ I snapped. Ice had reformed down my spine and my thumb was burning. The mind is a powerful thing. ‘What?’ I repeated almost shouting now. Sylvia shook her head. She wasn’t saying nuthin’.
I felt a rage building, driven by a hundred percent pure fear. Was I infected and if so, with what? I wanted to grab my beautiful ex-wife by the throat and shake her. I took a step towards her and she moved back. She was shaking her head, silver hair shimmering, one gloved hand held high, palm flat towards me. She was scared, and not just of me. In the stormy debris of our dying marriage I had never once hit her. Now wasn’t a good time to start. I took a deep breath and stepped back, fists clenched at my sides. ‘Dan, let’s find out if you’re infected,’ Sylvia was saying.
‘Test?’ Garston asked. She nodded and The Gnome bent to open a briefcase. He produced a small instrument case from which he removed a syringe. He fiddled with the damned thing for a moment, then handed it to Sylvia. She took the hypodermic from her assistant and came towards me.
‘I need a blood sample.’
‘Damn,’ I muttered. I hated needles but the thought of being infected by some damned biological weapon or whatever was worse. I sank into a chair and rested my left arm on a side table. Sylvia made me do the fist thing and I barely felt the needle go in. When she had done her blood-letting she passed the syringe back to Garston. Without a word he went off with it in search of some piece of equipment or other that was still in the outer office. Sylvia reached for my right hand and carefully peeled the plaster off my thumb. She examined the gash closely, nodding to herself.
‘How long since you removed the spear head and cut yourself?’ she wanted to know. I did the calculations and came up with forty-eight hours, give or take. I told her and a look of relief crossed her face. ‘Okay. If you’d been infected you’d have been dead twenty-four hours ago. This is just a low-grade infection, muck on the spear.’
‘Thank Christ,’ I muttered, feeling the ice along my backbone turn to water.
‘Thank Christ,’ I repeated. ‘What the hell is that stuff?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Come on, Syl!’ I implored. She shook her head and turned as Garston came back into the room. He was also shaking his head.
‘All clear,’ he said.
‘Okay, Danny.’ Sylvia moved to one side and rummaged in one of her team’s cases. She returned a moment later carrying a fresh plaster and a vial of pills. She peeled the plaster and smoothed it in place before she tipped half a dozen capsules from the vial into the palm of her hand and transferred them to mine. ‘Two daily with water and that should take care of any residue infection.’
‘Thank you, doctor,’ I said, pocketing the capsules.
‘My pleasure, darling ex,’ Sylvia replied. ‘We will now run a few tests before we box up your package and get it home in one piece. We might catch up later. In the meantime, Daniel, go and do whatever it is you do and let us get on with it.’ She turned to re-evaluate what lay on the desk in front of her. Garston was unpacking what looked like a mini vacuum cleaner, some sort of chemical sniffer, I assumed.
‘So you’re not planning on opening the thing?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely not!’ Sylvia said, shaking her head which made her sensational hair shimmer. ‘We are here to check the exterior for microscopic leaks, contain the whole thing and go home. Now you go!’
‘Going,’ I replied. I was truly relieved that I was no longer a candidate for the black plague or whatever the hell was in the box, but I wanted to see more of Sylvia. Strange that!
I started to replace the clothes Garston had removed from the holdall but Sylvia held up her hand to stop me. ‘We need to run the sniffer over those,’ she said. ‘When we’ve done we’ll put them in the outer office.’ I didn’t argue.
I gathered up the Walther and my holster rig and headed for the door. ‘See you for a drink afterwards,’ I said to the Welsh girl as I passed her. She was crouching on the floor, a case of serious-looking implements open in front of her.
‘Not bloody likely,’ snapped Sylvia over her shoulder as she answered for the youngster, who immediately turned into a burning beacon. ‘Go!’
‘Gone,’ I replied as I went out the door.
Seated or standing in Don Don’s office were half a dozen men, all of them in civilian clothes. The clothes did little to hide their military air. The weapons that several of them held sort of gave the game away. The owners of the hardware had the watchful eyes of true professionals. The big boys were here. No one said a word. There was another technical type squatting over an equipment case, obviously preparing something for Garston and Sylvia to play with.
Hey, hey, the gangs all here, I thought. ‘Have a nice day folks,’ I said to the room at large as I made my way through the happy throng and stepped out into the corridor where Don Don was waiting along with more men with guns. I couldn’t help thinking that me and my little Walther had done a damned good job of getting us and our package to this point, especially if this was what the damned powers that be figured they needed to protect it. I stopped to slip on my holster rig and hide my gun under my jacket. Walking the streets of Bangkok holding a pistol was not a good look and would probably get me killed.
‘Same apartment,’ Don Don said as he handed me the key to number eleven. I fell in step as he started walking me towards the stairs. ‘Good job, Daniel. Must be something important in that box.’
‘Or very dangerous,’ I said. ‘Sylvia will leave my bag in your office when she has finished checking it.’
‘No problem. We’ve got a couple of staff staying in the apartments. I’ll have one drop it in to you when they finish for the day.’
I thanked Don Don and started up the stairs, leaving him standing in the corridor. I was guessing that neither of us would ever know what was in the box. Not unless something went very, very wrong, of course. I didn’t really want to give power to the thought, so I pushed it away. ‘Get behind me, Satan,’ I muttered as I emerged into the evening air. The smog level was up and the air was blue.
I could have used one of the staff entrances but I didn’t. Instead I went out through the main gate. In the street I turned down Wireless Road. I wasn’t really worried about the CIA colours being back on watch. That part of the game was over now. Why they had vanished when they did would probably remain a mystery. Okay, my playmates and I had caused them serious casualties out in the Andaman and left them with bloodied egg on their faces, but the prize was gone. The dead were just casualties of a black war. God only knows if they would try for the box and its contents when the heavy mob went to take it back to the UK, or wherever.
I kept my eyes open but there was no sign of anyone following. I detoured into the CDS to get some supplies. I figured I’d get to the apartment, shower and have food and a beer or two. I might check out the Coro Club tonight, I thought, check in with Sami tomorrow and in a day or two, perhaps head back down to Phuket to spend a few days with Geezer and make a return engagement with the delicious Nan. It sounded like a workable plan. Funny thing about plans, though, was that there was always someone who would do their best to stuff them up.
21
Get down here fast!’ The voice was Don Don’s. He didn’t say anything else and hung up in my ear. I rolled over and glared at the digital clock on the beside table. The time was 04:40. Not a good time for me or for many other people. I nudged Babs awake.
‘Whash?’ she wanted to know. Oh yeah. Babs. Well, it went like this. After I’d had my shower the previous evening I did go down to the Coro Club and, as luck would have it, I ran straight into her. Her man was out of town again. We didn’t stay in the club. It was down to a restaurant she knew along the street and then back to number eleven for an exhausting romp. As I’d discovered the ti
me before, she was damned near tireless. No wonder her guy spent so much time out of the country recuperating.
‘Gotta go,’ I told her. ‘Let yourself out. Make sure the door is locked, okay?’
‘Okay,’ she mumbled as she buried her face back in the pillow.
I quickly showered, dressed and hit the street. I didn’t bother flagging down a tuk tuk. I was at the embassy in ten minutes and I barely needed to flash my ID. A white-faced Don Don was waiting for me in the foyer.
‘What’s up?’
‘There was a chemical release.’
‘Shit!’
‘Apparently the box was compromised. Someone bumped the table and it hit the floor. The lead seal broke. Doctor Dixon came to the door, ordered a total lock down and shut herself and the other two inside. The room is completely sealed,’ he reported. ‘Haven’t even got communications, but the technicians are working at getting a phone in to them.’
‘Oh boy!’ That was all I could think of to say. I should have warned them about the table leg but hadn’t thought about it. That part was done but now, what use was I going to be down here? We arrived at the basement corridor to find hawk-eyed armed guards standing around.
In Don Don’s office, however, there was a hive of activity. Desks had been pushed against the wall and an inflatable plastic hazard shield had been erected over and around the door to the bomb shelter. Two figures in chemical suits were working a large drill in the makeshift airlock, attempting to breech the wall to the right of the door. Technicians hovered around. There were oxygen and gas bottles, a web of hoses and all sorts of other paraphernalia.